Friday, March 13, 2009

About that Carine Woman

Many people have asked me: "Karl, why do you dislike that French woman?"They mean Carine Roitfeld, of course.

It all stems from this one incident where I walk walking outside my Paris apartment, quite (dare I say it?) content. Well. As content as I can be. I wasn't yelling at anyone anyway and that's an improvement. I was walking there, surrounded by only 20 or so people- not a big entourage. The Roitfeld woman comes up behind me, and tickles me. I let out a Germanic laugh- "HA! HA! HA!", like that. Imagine Kraftwerk. It's not a real laugh, hmm? It's more automatic than that. It's more automatic than these publicist people who cower around show rooms and seem to think that you want to whip them. They're a very automatic sort of people. They utter loud strings of laughter, like a machine gun. But no, my laughter was less made-to-order and more couture. I'm getting off-topic. The main point is that I do not like to be touched. At all. So when this woman comes up behind me, and inserts her hands down my side as if she's some sort of robot that's had it's wired crossed- well- I just reacted how any sane person would. I did Karl-Fu.

I did Menacing Glance first. All I do (silly me, I was about to dictate "all you do" in there when I remember you're not me! I'm actually making this journal accessible to the public! How strange. Obviously you could never do Menacing Glance, unless your name is Humbert Humber-Humer Humberdick the 1st. If that happens to be your name, I am not quite sure what you're doing because you're dead.)

The French woman reacts to Menacing Glace with a wince away. Her black fingernails actually come out, like those of a cat. It was not very effective.

So I try Bish Please, a move I perfected when I was a rap-artiste back in the 60's. It requires a puckering of the lips, something that not just anyone can do. It's a very specific sort of pucker. You must have the right cheekbones to do it. The right skin. The right sunglasses. This move was super-effective. She recoiled in horror.

What was poor Karl to do? Here I was, attacking a vicious cat-lady, and she was not knocked out yet. So I grabbed an umbrella, and drew a the Chanel logo in the clouds. A perfect logo. At this cat-lady is stunned, and falls to the ground. The jacket she wears, perched above her shoulders, falls apart. It's Balmain.